Be Still
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which a storm reminds Dean and Sam of those who went before.
1. Chapter 1

E.A. Poe didn't just write horror, he also wrote some beautiful and haunting poetry. This little one reminds me of the boys, and the fact that they're never really alone. Please review, and I answer all reviews at my website. As always, the characters aren't mine. I'm just borrowing.

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**Be silent in that solitude,**

**Which is not loneliness- for then**

**The spirits of the dead, who stood**

**In life before thee, are again**

**In death around thee, and their will**

**Shall overshadow thee; be still.**

**Spirits of the Dead – Edgar Allen Poe, 1827**

The rain hammered down outside, raking across the motel roof like claws. Lightning lit the room at irregular intervals, splashing distorted shadows on the carpet, and thunder rattled the pictures on the walls. Dean lay sprawled on the bed, sheets twisted around his bare legs, his eyes wide open in the darkness.

He hated these nights, nights where the weather conspired with his natural jumpiness to keep him from sleep. Normally he would have turned on the television and surfed for porn, but the storm had blown down the power lines. He supposed he could snag Sam's I-Pod, but there was probably nothing on it but emo-pop. Silence was preferable. Sam was sleeping soundly, completely oblivious to the storm that was pounding outside. Dean swore that the boy would sleep through Armageddon, and would wake up to find only himself, Dean, and the cockroaches alive. And Cher, of course.

There was nothing to distract him from his thoughts. He was supremely aware of the air, of the static that stood the hair of his arms on end, of the presence of electromagnetic activity that most humans never take notice of.

Nights like these, when he was the only one awake and there was nothing between him and the darkness…these were the nights that Dean was most aware of what was out there. It was these nights when he felt closest to the other side. He could almost feel them; feel the spirits that he knew lingered there, just out of sight.

Some of them were angry, of course, angry and confused. He didn't really mind those because most of them were weak, dissipated. They were just feelings, really, stray senses and glimpses. Nothing to pay any mind to, nor lose any sleep over.

But there were some who were different, who Dean felt particularly strongly on these stormy nights.

There was the frightened, bitter spirit of Marshall Hall. He was just a voice, a quiet whispering voice, asking over and over again why he was dead and Dean was alive, and how could a strong heart just explode? Angry over the loss of his life, over his stolen future, he could only ask why.

Then there was Layla. She felt gentle, as she was in life, always quiet and watchful, wishing to comfort Dean and take away his pain. Sometimes he could feel her fingers in his hair as she reminded him to have faith, to not lose hope. She made him sad. She made him lonely.

And finally the gruff yet loving sense of his father, watchful and demanding. It was this spirit that Dean felt most strongly. It was almost a part of him, that little part that gave him the right answers out of the blue when he didn't know what else to do. It didn't take a stormy night for John to come to his son.

Dean didn't know for certain that they were really there. For all he knew they could be parts of his subconscious, niggling at him, reminding him about everything that had come before. But he didn't think so. It wasn't frightening or bothersome, really. He rather liked to believe that they were there with him. It was a comfort to think that these three souls, souls who had been taken to save his own, were still around him. To believe that they had not wafted into oblivion or something worse…it made him feel better, dammit, and he wanted to believe it, because it meant that their deaths were not the end.

He never told Sam about them of course. It wasn't that Sam wouldn't believe him; of course he would. He just didn't need his brother lecturing him or worse yet _staring_ at him with his big wet eyes. They were _his _ghosts. He didn't want to exorcize them, he wanted to hoard them. He needed all three of them. He needed Marshall to remind him to earn the sacrifice that Marshall made, to spend every day killing the evil sons-of-bitches that were destroying the lives of normal people. He needed Layla to give him faith and hope, to remind him that faith isn't only for when things are going right. And he needed John…well, that was a whole other kettle of fish. He needed John for a whole mess of things.

So no, he wouldn't speak of the ghosts to Sam or anyone else. With them he felt like he was never alone, which made him feel even lonelier, but they were his. And he wouldn't salt and burn those spirits for any amount of money or love in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

This was intended to be a one-shot, but then I realized, Sam has ghosts too. Please review, and as always, I answer all reviews at my website.

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And there's not enough room in this world for my pain**

**Signals cross and love gets lost **

**And time past makes it plain**

**Of all my demon spirits, I need you the most**

**I'm in love with your ghost**

**Ghost – E. Saliers**

It would have been dawn, if the sun could have fought its way through the gloom. The sky was gray and low, heavy with clouds, thick with moisture. The air smelled of rain and of soil and of that strange something that fills the nose after a storm. Sam stepped out of the hotel room, glancing behind at a sleeping Dean, then pulled the door shut behind him. He pulled his coat a little tighter around him as a breeze full of the passing of the storm rustled by him. As always, he found himself walking aimless, wandering until he stumbled on a coffee shop, a café, or a hole-in-the-wall where he could find coffee for his brother, and solitude for himself.

Mornings like these, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir, felt his instincts jump and jitter as he breathed in the heavy air. He always felt like this after an electrical storm. It was as though his body was pinging with energy, picking up on every stray spirit that wandered through. He supposed that it may have something to do with his psychic open-circuits, he didn't know, but somehow the ghosts always found him on those rainy days.

The first to come, always the first and the strongest of them, like a bittersweet song caught from a faraway open window, was Jess. A sense of her wrapped around him, like the rush of warmth from a whisky shot, the heady high of a new love, whispering in his brain to never forget her, to not push the memories of her away to a dusty corner of his mind.

Fact of the matter was he didn't need a ghost to remind him of her. Truthfully he didn't know if his heart would ever learn to let her go, or whether he ever wanted to. The thought of her face was enough to clench his heart, to weaken his knees. But the worst of it was that no matter how strong his memories were, he would never feel her touch again, and he would never, ever be able to tell her how sorry he was.

He wished sometimes he _could_ forget her, leave behind the wraith of what could have been. But on these mornings full of rain, of crying skies, she was as near as a ghost could be, nearly inside his skin.

It wasn't just Jess, though, by a long shot. Other spirits crowded him, catching his attention like a flicker of movement from the corner of the eye.

He felt his dad like a warm, heavy blanket, a pressure both reassuring and burdensome. He could almost hear the gruff voice, sternly ordering Sam to make him proud, to be strong. The same words that used to make Sam so all-fired angry, so put-upon, now made him feel an odd, bitter sense of pride and responsibility. He also felt a dark sadness, a sense of loss at the years he and his father had turned their backs to one another. He wanted now only to make himself worthy of his father's pride, and that burden was one he would carry gladly, if only to atone for lost time.

There was another, too, another ghost, one of whom he had no real memory beyond a few tattered photos and much-told stories. He wished so much that he could have known his mother, felt her hugs and kisses, told her just one time that he loved her. If he really thought about it, he supposed that he loved the idea of her. Can you really love someone you've never seen, someone you've never touched? Sometimes her spirit was like a breath of breeze, a lilac-scented wisp of wind, elusive and fleeting. But then sometimes he felt that if he just closed his eyes and reached out he could gather her into his arms. Either way, more than anything, she softly whispered to him _take care of your brother_. She was the still, small voice that reminded him to look, really look, at Dean and see the truth that was hiding behind that exterior of razor wire and broken glass.

Sam had to admit to himself that he longed for these mornings, mornings where everything was still and soft, dripping with fresh rain. He needed those spirits, even though they felt sometimes like a cancer that ate up his heart, gobbled up his joy, filled him with a need so thick and heavy and full that he could hardly breathe. Those spirits were people he had loved and lost, and the reminder of their absence hurt. But they were also his saviors, people who had died in his place, people who he loved and who loved him back. It was a comfort that they were not truly gone, that there was _something_ left of them in the world. He needed them. And sometimes, when no one was around, he would quietly ask them, plead to them, to not take away his last friend, the last person he had left to love, and who loved him back.


End file.
